


Kissing in the Blue Dark

by anr



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:12:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not a movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kissing in the Blue Dark

**Author's Note:**

> _Aliens_ apoca!fic.

He doesn't quite remember when Ziva turned herself into a walking armoury -- probably it was day one or close enough to it -- but on a bridge somewhere south of nowhere, her shotguns and SIGs and survival knives and grenades seem much more _there_ than usual. He blames the armed-forces-silhouette body pose she has going on, all foot-propped-on-an-acid-pitted-support-frame and body-bent-over while she relaces one of her boots.

"Sarah Connor eat your heart out," he says softly.

She looks over her shoulder at him, her pose turning dangerously suggestive in the moments before she straightens and turns to face him properly. "The _Terminator_ , yes? 'I'll be back'?"

 _This woman_ , he thinks. "I love you," he says.

She nods once, her hand sliding down over her thigh. "Duck," she says, and throws a knife across his shoulder.

  


* * *

  


If this was a movie, they'd be the underdogs. The scrappy little redshirts. The under-estimated, mistreated, misunderstood. Ben Richards in _The Running Man_ , just waiting for Betty White to bet the farm on his success; Macaulay Culkin in the _Home Alone_ movies, outsmarting the relentlessly stupid; Jim Levenstein finally getting laid in _American Pie_ despite, well, _everything_.

If this was a movie, it'd all be over already. The aliens defeated by morse code and an alcoholic pilot one long weekend. Cowboys and Indians wiping out the advance party with a nifty armband and some inter-species making out. Princess Leia strangling Jabba post his Hey-La-Your-Boyfriend's-Back-and-I'm-gonna-kill-him mixer.

Tony knows, _this is not a movie_.

  


* * *

  


They camp in a rest stop off the I95. While Ziva skins a rabbit, he sets up their perimeter, builds up a fire, digs out the cooking gear.

"Twenty-three miles," he says.

"We have walked further." She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of blood along her hairline. "We _should_ have walked further."

He knows. "Tomorrow," he promises, and pulls their portable ultrasound unit out of her pack for when she's done.

  


* * *

  


They both scan clear, still, and it's expected, yes, but it's also a relief.

"Milkshakes," he says later, quietly, breathing the word across the back of her neck. He's had a craving for fresh milk all day, ever since they passed that billboard sign. He doesn't even care what flavour 'shake -- strawberry, chocolate, banana, vanilla, caramel...

She shivers and tightens her grip on the arm he has draped over her waist, pulling him closer. " _The Sound of Music_."

He smiles and considers humming a few bars for her, just because, but she yawns, and then he yawns, and then she does again.

"Safe dreams," he says instead.

"Safe dreams," she says.

  


* * *

  


The last time he spoke to Gibbs it was the day before the world jumped into a hand-basket and if he'd known then what he knows now, well. For a start, he'd have probably said more than just, _on it, Boss_.

The last time he spoke to McGee and Abby he doesn't remember the words as much as he does the body language. The tightness of Abby's hug. The fierceness of McGee's handshake. The look on their faces as he and Ziva --

  


* * *

  


They're taking the long way to Mexico; keeping to the coastal plains instead of cutting across the Appalachians, taking back roads around the big cities wherever possible. He reminds himself every day that the delays are worth it, necessary. What little encounters they have on these roads are nothing compared to what they'd be experiencing closer to the Missouri crash-site.

"Something is following us."

He thumbs off the safety on his rifle and brings it up, turning to face her. He keeps walking, backwards. "Animal, plant, mineral or alien?" he asks, scanning the highway behind her.

"Animal."

"Food-animal or run-and-hide-before-we-shoot-to-kill-animal?"

She raises an eyebrow. "There is a difference?"

"Do you even _remember_ that lion in Virginia?"

"I remember it tasted like dog." Reaching over her shoulder, she pulls free one of her shotguns from her back holster, cocking it.

He still can't see anything behind her. Which means --

Spinning around, he takes aim at the pair of bobcats that have circled around them. "Great," he sighs, "more dog."

  


* * *

  


This time, twenty-seven miles and change. He adds _The Godfather_ on Blu-ray to his list.

"Pizza," says Ziva, curling up against his back. Her left arm is wrapped around his middle, her knuckles digging into his sternum, her legs bent behind his. "I miss pizza."

He takes her hand in his, keeps them tucked against his chest. "Safe dreams, Ziva."

She squeezes his fingers. "Safe dreams, Tony."

  


* * *

  


They come across a nest, their first in almost a week, in an industrial section just off the highway. As he sets C4 charges around the outside of the warehouse, Ziva hotwires a petrol tanker that's full of fumes, if nothing else, and backs it into the loading dock.

Afterwards, from the roof of a nearby bathroom supplies depot, they sniper-shoot at a half-dozen warriors and face-huggers trying to escape the burning building, picking them off one by one until the entire lot is awash with acid and fire and death.

"Where there's a nest..." he sighs, reloading.

Nodding, she blows the head off another warrior.

  


* * *

  


Nine warehouses in this little corner of South Carolina. They've vaporised one; the others they clear systematically, checking every basement, storeroom, office and loft for the nursery. Out of respect for the danger, severity and overall horribleness of the situation, he only does his _Fugitive_ quote once.

They find evidence of a small community in a mattress factory, food and water supplies, dried blood and acid scars.

"How many?"

She shrugs. "Fifteen, twenty, maybe." With the tip of her shotgun, she turns back a fold of blanket, revealing a collection of toys and chocolate bars and soda cans. "Children mostly."

He winces.

The nursery is in the second last warehouse they have to clear, nearly at the complete opposite end of the street from the nest and mattress store. There's only a couple of warriors still hanging around -- the rest must have slithered down the sewage system to foolishly try and protect the nest when they broke all hell loose over there.

Most of the bodies -- he can't call them kids, not anymore, not if he wants to stay sane -- have already birthed; the couple still intact have something visibly insidious moving around inside of them. He doesn't bother pulling out their portable ultrasound.

Ziva puts a bullet into each of the incubators; he douses the bodies with a few gallons of gasoline.

He doesn't know who's match it is that sets them alight. It's probably better that way.

  


* * *

  


That night, no campfire.

Ziva sets the perimeter and has him check it for her, twice, before she can bring herself to lower her weapons.

In the darkness, he peels the guns and knives from her body slowly, his fingers shaking, his heart racing. He can't breathe right.

"Shh," she says, shifting forward and straddling his lap and pressing her lips to his forehead, his cheek, his mouth. "I am here, I am here, I am here. Tony --"

He kisses her. Slides his tongue into her mouth and seals his lips over hers and tastes something other than death and destruction and finality. She kisses him back just as hard, her hands moving to his waist and pulling at his t-shirt, fingernails digging into the skin on his back. He slides his own hands under her waistband, into her underwear where she is wet, restless above him, her hips grinding down against where he's hard. He groans.

It's not sex, not technically. No matter how much he wants to, she wants to, _they_ want to, they can't do it. Can't cross that line. Can't run the risk that one day, somehow, even with every drugstore protection known to woman and man --

The day something starts to grow inside of her -- hell, inside of _either_ of them -- is the day they die. They both know that. Their ultrasound kit can only show so much and a wait-and-see approach in this life is a death sentence. To wonder if a grainy little peanut-sized shape on their screen actually means life, to hesitate over _hope_ \--

No.

He comes in her hand, feels her come around his fingers, and it's as good as. Really, it is.

"I love you," she whispers.

  


* * *

  


In the morning he dismantles the perimeter carefully, checking the units for wear and tear. He's still not entirely sure how they work -- something about EM fields that give the warriors and face-huggers a bad itch in the back of their acid-pickled brains when they get too close; McGee didn't exactly have time to go into the specifics before they left -- but he does know that they're the only thing allowing them to sleep at night. Without them -- well.

He updates their logbook with their progress the previous day, minor though it was, and recalculates the time it will take to get to Mexico. He figures another twenty-four days still, give or take bad weather, random alien attacks, run-in's with other survivors -- rare as those meetings are becoming -- and side adventures like yesterday's clean up job.

After that, a day or two to restock and bring Gibbs up to speed, and then the reverse trip with Gibbs back to DC where McGee and Abby have likely already solved this tiny little problem of intergalactic annihilation and are just waiting for them to bring back their congratulatory Caf-Pow's.

"Tell me again, Tony," Ziva asks, sliding her shotguns into her back holster and checking the grenades in her pockets. "How does this movie end?"

Standing, he shoulders his pack and his rifle, moving over to her side. He flashes her a quick grin, all charm, and leans over to press a kiss to her cheek.

"Not today," he says.

Her hand brushes his, catching around his fingers and squeezing hard for a moment. "Not today," she agrees, letting go.

Stepping forward, she takes point.

  


* * *

  


Thirty-two miles.

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/500751.html>
> 
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